


Don’t Fuck With

by wildxwired



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Gallavich, M/M, Married Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich, Post Season 10, Smut, Various fag related insults, ghetto honeymoon, mickey wants waffles dick and revenge in that order, new husbands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-21
Updated: 2020-05-21
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:49:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24058501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildxwired/pseuds/wildxwired
Summary: “Here,” Officer Sanchez says. “This is the refund for your room. Do me a favour and drive out of town for the night,” he pauses to fumble for his wallet, sliding a white and gold business card between his thick fingers. “There’s a harbour town a few hours drive from here, go to this hotel and tell them Donny Sanchez sent you. Don’t book under your real name.” He adds that last bit sharply, pointing a finger directly at Mickey.
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Comments: 77
Kudos: 417





	1. Disgruntled Chicken

**Author's Note:**

  * For [didipickles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/didipickles/gifts), [ships_to_sail](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ships_to_sail/gifts).



> Hey, fuckers! Welcome to my first toe dip into the beautiful insanity that is Gallavich! 
> 
> Thank you thank you thank you to the wonderful didipickles and ships_to_sail for all their cheerleading and hand holding!

Ian’s still shaking feathers out of his hair when the cops arrive. He’s sitting at the foot of the destroyed bed in his suit pants and unbuttoned dress shirt, watching as Officer Sanchez attempts to calm the irate motel owner whilst purposely ignoring Mickey’s murderous ramblings. 

His husband is also partially dressed in his wedding attire, because those were the closest clothes to them as the lady who ran the place started pounding on the door and shrieking manically not long after Terry’s car sped away. Mickey had initially been quite calm, but the lady with the smudged lipstick and breakfast-vodka breath had been screaming at them non stop for five minutes before Mickey finally snapped and argued back. 

She’s currently screaming as Officer Sanchez tries to get their statements, yelling at an officer about insurance and the cost of repairs as they try desperately to get her into another room for questioning.

“I’ll patch up the holes with the soft pieces of Terry’s lower intestines after I rip them out through his fucking nostrils!” Mickey bites and Officer Sanchez groans and rubs a hand over his stubbled cheek, pretending to ignore Mickey. The cops know it’s Terry, _of course_ they fucking know it’s Terry, but with no external security cameras or eye witnesses and bullets imbedded deep in the walls from a probably untracable gun, the judicional system is gonna be a real bitch. 

“I didn’t hear that,” the officer mumbles and Mickey’s face cracks into an annoyed scowl. 

“Well then let me make sure I enunciate better this time; I’m going to fucking ki-”

Ian grabs Mickey’s wrist and tugs him violently down to the bed. Mickey grunts as he lands in a pissed off heap of black next to his husband.

“Let’s just let the man do his job, Mick,” Ian grits through a smile, to which Mickey snorts and grumbles but says nothing more. 

“Do yourself a favour and listen to your husband, and then _maybe_ you’ll get to leave before the crime unit gets here,” Officer Sanchez sighs before trailing off after the owner, whose hysterical screams can still be heard down the hall. 

Mickey doesn’t respond, just watches the man leave before groaning out a long and tired curse. Ian sets a comforting hand on Mickey’s thigh and leans to rest his head in the gap between Mickey’s shoulder and jaw, fitting perfectly against his new husband. They sigh. After a moment, Mickey huffs out a breathy little chuckle, raising his hand to Ian’s hair where he runs his fingers through the fiery strands. 

“C’mere,” Mickey mumbles, tilting Ian’s face up with a crooked finger beneath his chin. With his free hand he pulls at the last few feathers still hiding in Ian’s messy morning locks. Ian smiles. “You look like a fuckin’ disgruntled chicken.”

They both laugh and Ian catches Mickey’s fingers between his own, bringing them to his lips. 

“Disgruntled, hmm? Someone’s been paying attention to Debbie’s Word of the Day calendar.”

“Fuck You is what I’ve been paying attention to,” Mickey snipes back with raised brows and a soft smile, bright eyes sparkling like he’s setting Ian a challenge. Ian loves this side of Mickey, when the barbs of his usual sarcasm soften like warm butter and Ian gets to lap him up. 

Ian’s just about to reply something filthy when Officer Sanchez reappears. He stomps over to the pair, fisting a wad of crumpled bills that he shoves into Ian’s hands when he reaches them. 

“Here,” he says. “This is the refund for your room. Do me a favour and drive out of town for the night,” he pauses to fumble for his wallet, sliding a white and gold business card between his thick fingers. “There’s a harbour town a few hours drive from here, go to this hotel and tell them Donny Sanchez sent you. _Don’t_ book under your real name.” He adds that last bit sharply, pointing a finger directly at Mickey. 

Mickey scoffs and waves him off. “Yeah, yeah. We got it, double-o-seven. This ain’t my first rodeo.” 

Officer Sanchez huffs and hands Ian the card. “Your husband is a real smartass, you know that?” 

There’s no malice in his words and if his moustache were a little trimmer Ian knows he’d be able to see the cop smirking, hell even Mickey looks somewhat delighted at the insult. 

Ian laughs and reaches out to Mickey’s face, dragging his thumb over Mickey’s cheekbone. “Yeah,” he drawls. “But lucky for him that’s not all his ass is.”

Mickey flicks his gaze up and down Ian’s face, smile quickly slipping into a splitting grin. He leans in to kiss Ian’s lips quickly, laughing when Officer Sanchez groans in mock disgust. 

“I think this room has suffered you two enough,” says Sanchez, barking out a laugh when Mickey flips him off and kisses Ian again. “Enjoy the honeymoon period while it lasts boys, now get the hell out of here,” he adds, turning to head for the door. 

“Say hi to Carlos,” Mickey calls, his eyes still glued to Ian’s, looking like he wants to devour him whole. There’s a final distant grunt from Officer Sanchez, and then all Ian knows for the next few minutes is the warmth of Mickey’s mouth and his palms against Ian’s cheeks. 

————

They’re on the road less than half an hour before they stop for breakfast. It’s probably not ideal to stop so close, but they’re still partially dressed in wedding attire and Mickey’s been bitching about wanting waffles for twenty five minutes so Ian relents, pulling the car into the lot of a roadside diner. He didn’t get to give his husband dick this morning, so the least he can do is get the man some waffles. 

Ian throws their bag under the table and sinks into the noisy pleather seats. He tilts his head towards the ceiling and exhales noisily, skin vibrating like he’s had a full day of adrenaline despite being awake for less than three hours. It’s not even like he’s got the excuse of little sleep, because although they’d fucked twice after champagne and strawberries, they’d both passed out after round two, sated and giddy and exhausted. 

“Yo, sleepy face,” Mickey says, jostling Ian’s good leg with his foot. Ian grunts and cracks open an eye to find his husband sliding his meds across the table top. “Sprinkles for your waffles.” 

A smile pulls at the corner of Ian’s mouth as Mickey’s foot rubs soothingly against his calf. “Sprinkles are for desserts, not breakfast.”

Mickey scoffs and flips open the menu. “Speak for yourself, motherfucker. I’m a married man now, I can let myself go.”

“What if I like your prison workout physique?” Ian jibes, curling his long fingers around the bright orange prescription bottle. 

Mickey’s too engrossed in the menu to take the bait of further banter, so he simply mutters, “Tough fucking cookies, firecrotch.” 

Ian bites on his bottom lip to try and slow the quickly spreading smile. The way the words just fall from Mickey’s mouth so easily, despite everything, makes Ian’s chest burn with something terrifying and wonderful. Because that’s just it, Mickey can let himself go, in every sense of the term, they both can. They’re free. Well, hunted by homophobic Nazis, but still...free. Free of prison and boarders and bullshit and breakdowns. Now they’re married, bound together tightly by silk rope instead of barbed wire, willing to sacrifice anything for eachother and the whole damn world knows it. 

When the waitress arrives to take their order Ian hasn’t even glanced at the menu yet, he’s been too busy making heart eyes at his husband. 

“You boys crash a wedding, or something?” their waitress _Stacey_ asks, nodding at their crumpled dress shirts, sleeves rolled to the elbows, and the grazing down the side of Mickey’s face. Ian catches the side glance Mickey shoots her before he goes back to contemplating the menu. After the florists, Mickey let’s Ian take the lead on public conversations with strangers. 

“Uh, yeah,” Ian replies, sliding the cup of cutlery out of Mickey’s reach. “But it was our own wedding, so I don’t think that counts.”

“Oh, so you’re gay?” The wicked glint in her eye and her scraped back hair remind Ian so much of Mandy. Ian nods curtly and Stacey smirks, tucking her fist into her waist. “Fuck yeah, I fucking love anal!”

Her announcement makes Mickey laugh out loud, the sound bursting from his mouth in delighted amusement. Ian can’t help but grin. It isn’t often he gets to watch strangers really amuse Mickey, instead of pissing him off with their stupidity. A lady from the next booth gawks at the waitress in disgust, but Stacey quickly waves her glares away. “Fuck off, Carol. Like you don’t know what I’m talking about.”

Mickey laughs again and the lady bustles and turns away sharpish, leaving Stacey to congratulate them and offer them free sides for their waffles - thus securing herself the biggest tip Ian’s ever seen Mickey leave. 

————

Ian leans against the trunk of the car as he waits for Mickey, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his zip up hoodie. When Mickey emerges from the diner, Ian licks his lips subconsciously because _damn_ , his husband is fine. Mickey’s dressed in a burgundy long sleeve T-shirt and a sleeveless denim vest, looking like dessert as the soft cotton wraps around his biceps in a way that makes Ian’s tongue jealous. 

It hasn’t escaped Ian that Mickey’s style has shifted since he last got out of prison. Where once well worn, rarely washed and often stolen layers of mismatched clothing lived, now reside clean lines and deep colours that frame Mickey’s compact body perfectly. Mickey catches Ian staring as he descends the few steps of the entrance, and his whole face brightens until his smirk finally gets to his eyes. The blue pools darken and ignite like glass taking shape, making Ian shiver beneath their gaze. 

“Ready to get goin’?” Ian says as he slides his body closer to the driver’s side.

“Why, we got someplace to be, Gallagher?” Mickey asks, throwing their bag into the backseat before hopping into the front. 

Ian slides behind the wheel. “Yeah, someplace non public so I can fuck my husband.”

Though he’d probably deny it under pain of death, Mickey blushes just ever so slightly. 

“Non public, huh? Never stopped us before.”

“Yeah, well I’m done sharing you,” Ian states with gentle determination, hoping that Mickey gets how much he means it, because _fuck_ does he mean it. 

Mickey definitely blushes that time, quickly leaning in to distract Ian with a slow kiss.

————

The GPS on Mickey’s phone sucks but they follow it anyway. Ian’s phone has the best speakers, but they’re currently using those to blast out 80’s anthems rather than concentrating on wherever the hell it is they’re supposed to be going. 

“Coz we’re running just as fast as we can!”

“Holding on to one another’s hand!” Mickey caws, reaching out for Ian’s hand and grasping their fingers together as he smiles, psychotically happy. They sing the rest of the bridge together, words tumbling clumsily from their mouths around breaths and giggles until they’re screeching the chorus at each other. 

“I THINK WE’RE ALONE NOW! THERE DOESN’T SEEM TO BE ANYONE AROUND!”

Mickey runs out of breath and collapses back against the seat. The music’s a lot quieter now they’re not singing along, so Ian can hear the little breathy chuckles Mickey makes. 

“Hey,” Ian prods after a few minutes of quiet, watching until Mickey’s attention averts to him. “You think Officer Sanchez took his husband’s last name?”

Mickey quirks a skeptical brow. “You asking me if I think that bearded polar bear is naturally Mexican?” Ian shrugs and Mickey continues to study his face carefully. “Why you askin? You want me to take your last name?”

“I dunno,” Ian shrugs again. “You want me to take your last name?”

“Hell no,” Mickey bites. “Terry would run you through a meat grinder.”

Ian grunts in agreement, tightening his hands on the wheel before taking a deep breath. “There is a third option.” 

Mickey juts his chin out, “Oh?”

“Yeah…we make a new one.”

“What?” Mickey frowns in confusion. “You wanna make a new one? What the fuck would we be called?”

Ian glances at him briefly. “I kinda like Gallavich.”

Mickey laughs. “Are you twelve? I thought that was a joke.”

And really, at the time it was. But the word has been rolling around Ian’s mouth behind pressed lips since this morning. The more and more he tastes it, the more natural and right it feels within him. He likes the feeling it gives him, a commanding calmness right down to his bones. 

Ian shrugs. “It was, but it sticks, y’know? I like how it sounds, I guess. A bit of you and a bit of me. Something new that sounds so, I don’t know-”

“—familiar?” Mickey finishes. Ian smiles softly and nods. 

“Yeah.”

Mickey doesn’t reply, simply lets his hand grasp at the soft muscle of Ian’s thigh. He presses his thumb into the rough denim of Ian’s jeans and slides himself closer across the seat. 

“I guess it does have a nice ring to it. I could get used to it.”

Ian smirks as Mickey’s lips scrape slowly across his Ian’s lower jaw. “Then there’s just one thing left to decide.”

Mickey hums and trails his lips to Ian’s ear. “Oh yeah? What’s that?”

“Do we spell it with one L or two?”

There’s a beat of silence before Mickey barks, offended, pulling his face back quickly and shoving his elbow roughly into Ian’s side. 

“Motherfucker!”

Ian laughs and squirms, gripping the wheel as he tries to bat Mickey away. “I’m driving, you fucking psycho!” 

“Fuck you, Gallavich! You can suck your own dick from now on,” Mickey says through a grin. Ian smirks and reaches for Mickey’s thigh. 

“Say that again,” he murmurs and Mickey makes no protest to the touch, instead leans back into his previous position by Ian’s ear. 

“I said…” he trails, scratching his teeth over Ian’s lobe. “Fuck me, Galla- _vich_.” 

Ian swerves into a lay-by, following a rough and gravelled road until he can throw the car behind several rows of tall shrubs and trees. He parks and presses the button for the soft-top, his eyes running over his husband with a predatory gaze as the world closes off around them. 

————

Ian would have thought they could fuck anywhere by now, but they’re too messy and scrambled, pouring over the backseat in a clumsy rush of limbs and teeth. It’s taking too much brain power that his blood flow just won’t allow right now, so he ends up grunting in frustration and yanking Mickey’s shirt up until it’s under his armpits. 

“Fuck,” Mickey gasps, eyes snapping shut as Ian wraps his long pale fingers around Mickey’s cock. The jeans are loose enough to let Ian shove them down without undoing them, and soon Mickey’s dick is out and on display while Mickey still fumbles with Ian’s belt. 

“Mick, fuck—c’mon,” Ian urges as his hand joins Mickey’s in their task. Mickey jolts back into focus, pulling and pushing and unzipping until he gets a hand on Ian’s cock. 

Ian ruts desperately into Mickey’s fist a few times before forcing himself away, leaving Mickey only momentarily confused until Ian sinks his mouth down Mickey’s cock with a satisfied moan. 

“Fucking _Christ_ , Ian,” Mickey keens, hips arching involuntarily off the seat as Ian starts to make those soft gagging noises. He slicks up Mickey’s cock as much as he can, letting rivets of drool leak from his mouth, catching them beneath his fingers so he can jack Mickey messily. 

When Ian pushes himself back over Mickey, Mickey reaches for him and pulls their mouths together like kissing Ian is as important as breathing. Ian tugs his own shirt and hoodie up his chest until he can grind against Mickey, their hard cocks sliding together with delicious hot friction. Ian leans further back so he can watch the mess of spit and skin, and when he looks back to Mickey he finds his husband panting and grinning right at him. 

“Mm, love the way you move, Gallavich,” Mickey purrs, eyes dark and smile crooked as he runs a hand across Ian’s hip. Ian responds by giving him a kiss that’s more like a bite as he reaches a hand beneath Mickey’s bare ass and pulls him up so Ian can grind harder against his husband. Mickey curses, hand slamming against the headrest as he bucks his hips. 

“Fuck, I love it,” Ian mouths against Mickey’s throat. “It’s you and me, Mick. It’s always been you and me.”

Mickey runs his fingers up the naps of Ian’s neck, threading his fingers tightly through the strands and pulling Ian’s face back up to his. Mickey’s eyes are crystal clear in the midday sun. To anyone else they’re a clouded blue but Ian’s always been able to see right through them. He knows the corners of Mickey’s soul without a sound. Mickey regards Ian like he knows this all too well as he pants hot breaths into Ian’s open mouth. 

“Fuck—easy with the corny shit, Mr Darcy, just stick something up my fuckin’— _mother fuuuu_...” Ian cuts him off by pressing a slender finger between Mickey’s asscheeks and against his hole, pushing hard against the furled ring but not quite penetrating it. 

Like he said, he knows his husband. 

Mickey whines and rocks down against Ian’s finger, working it inside himself, gasping and hissing as Ian continues to fuck their stomachs. 

It’s been happening for nearly a decade, but Ian never gets bored of watching Mickey fall apart. He knows it happens so rarely, maybe only with Ian - because _fuck_ , no ones ever made Ian fall apart like the man beneath him. Mickey stops making sounds when he comes. Hell, he stops breathing, just gawks open mouthed at the roof of the car as he comes between them with Ian’s crooked finger buried deep inside him. Ian lets him ride it out before he pulls his hand back, but before he can do anything else Mickey grabs his cock and starts jacking him relentlessly. 

“Fuck—Mick,” Ian chokes as Mickey swipes a hand through his own come and uses it slick up Ian’s throbbing dick. Ian’s gonna lose his fucking mind in a second, but Mickey grounds him with a hand on Ian’s cheek. 

“C’mon, Gallavich,” Mickey murmurs, tightening his fist on every upstroke of Ian’s cock. “It’s you and me.” 

And that’s all it takes Ian to fall apart, coming with a sharp cry and completely trapped in his husband’s gaze. 

————

The afternoon sun is bright and cold as they squint through it towards the hotel. It’s right next to the harbour, and Ian feels instantly refreshed by the deep breath of salty air he takes. He leaves Mickey to put money on the meter as he heads towards the two story white stone building, double checking the card and the name above the door before heading inside. 

The hotel lobby is long but cozy, like a library if it were run by hipsters who preferred mismatched rugs to books. There’s huge leather sofas and a guy with shaggy hair wearing a beat up army jacket, sitting behind the sticker covered reception desk and eyeing Ian with a soft and curious smile. At the end of the desk is a dog bed with a decrepit looking chihuahua inside, it’s pink tongue lolling dopely out of its mouth as it watches the world behind a plaque that reads _‘Management’_. 

“Welcome to Hotel,” the guy greets, clutching a mug of coffee in one hand as the other taps on the raised iPad in front of him. “Do you have a reservation?”

“Uh,” Ian fumbles with the card in his hands and lays it on the desk. “Donny Sanchez sent us.”

“Us?” He glances behind Ian, confused. 

“Me and my husband. We got married yesterday and there was a — a situation... at our hotel,” Ian explains. 

The guy takes a slow sip of his coffee and hums. “Well, we can’t have that. How much did Don send you with?”

Ian pulls the ball of bills from his back pocket and flips through them. “Sixty four bucks.”

“What a coincidence! That’s exactly the price of our sunset suite for the night, and lucky for you it’s currently available.” Ian suspects it’s far more, judging by the nice plants, clean smell and box light lettering along the wall spelling out H O T E L - but the guy is smiling warmly at him in a way that’s oddly comforting. 

“Great!” Ian replies, pushing the bills across the desk as the guy picks up a radio. 

“Stevie, can you double check the Sunset Suit has fresh linen? We have some special guests.” The radio crackles and squawks.

_“Will do, boss. Do they prefer a spiced tobacco and orange scent or Indian rose?”_

He raises a brow at Ian who shrugs. “Uh, the first one?”

“They’ll take the spiced tobacco, Stevie. Thanks.”

The lobby door opens letting in a whirl of street noise before falling quiet again, and a moment later Ian can feel the familiar presence of Mickey standing beside him. He might not notice it, but his shoulders relax. Mickey’s looking at the dog on the desk with concern and confusion as it lays there almost lifeless. It hiccups in its sleep and Mickey flinches. 

The guy laughs and leans to scritch at the dog’s head. “Don’t worry, Sweet Pea always looks like she’s dead but Frankie says she’ll outlive us all.”

“Frankie?” Mickey asks and the guy juts hit head towards a shorter man by the window in baggy jeans and a red soccer jersey, pawing his way through a crate of cassette tapes. 

“That’s my husband, Frank,” he says, and the man raises a hand to send an awkward backwards wave their way, flashing knuckle tattoos and chipped black nail polish. “I’m Gerard.”

“Hi, Gerard,” Ian greets, looking at his own husband for a beat. “We’re the Gallavich’s.”

He sees Mickey glance at him with a coy little smirk as Gerard grins and hands over a room key. 

“Room’s that way,” he says, pointing at a spiral staircase at the back. “And check-out is tomorrow at one. You think you can fit all the noisy sex you can’t have in whatever cramped south side house you guys come from in that time?” 

Frank walks behind him with the crate in his hands. “You couldn’t,” he mumbles as he passes, and Gerard flips him off with a grin. 

————

“Fuck.”

“Fuck,” Ian agrees as they trail into the room, taking in the long light room with the exposed brick, black framed bed with crisp white sheets. 

There are framed black and white images of the harbour along the interior and the windows are slender rectangles of warped glass running along the length of the West facing wall. A desk, a dresser, a flat screen TV sit below them as a narrow grey rug runs down the length of the room, leading to the bathroom. 

They glance at each other and then back to the slightly ajar bathroom door before sprinting towards it with a giddy yell. They shove playfully at each other as they tumble through the doorway, grins turning to stunned awe when their eyes land upon the huge shower. It’s covered in white honeycomb tile and the large shiny shower head hangs from the ceiling. The far wall curves into a bench of the same light tile with a slender drain running from corner to corner. It’s the biggest shower they’ve seen that wasn’t communal; it’s definitely the cleanest. 

“Oh my god,” Ian whispers.

Mickey reaches out to slide the clear glass door open. It smells fresh and a little like mint. “Whatever the ass version of a boner is, I definitely just popped one.”

Ian grins manically back at Mickey and it only takes a moment before they’re both ripping their clothes off. Ian’s naked and in the shower first, even getting the damn boot off in a second flat before he hops passed Mickey. 

“Get the lube, bitch,” he laughs and Mickey tells him to fuck off but retrieves it from their bag anyway, joining Ian beneath the wide spray of the shower. Ian reaches for him immediately, letting the bottle fall to the bench as he gets his mouth on Mickey’s beneath the warm water. 

They’ve showered together a handful of times at home and in prison, but never like this. Never with enough hot water and time to really enjoy it. Ian sucks Mickey’s bottom lip between his teeth and let’s his hands wander over the firm, taut muscles of Mickey’s lower back and ass. No screaming siblings, no paid off guard, no blood to wash away — it’s just the two of them and the sound of the water pattering on the tiles. 

Not on board with the leisurely pace, Mickey ruts against Ian’s body, hand reaching down to flatten over Ian’s hardening cock. Mickey moans, half the sound escaping as the rest is trapped in Ian’s mouth, swallowed in their next kiss. 

“C’mon, get on me,” Mickey urges, wrapping his tattooed fingers around Ian’s thick cock and jacking him steadily. Ian cups Mickey’s face in both hands and kisses him, wet and messy until they’re both panting. “Want you now,” Mickey purrs. 

Ian presses a teasing finger between Mickey’s asscheeks, waiting for him to lick his lips in satisfaction before he grabs Mickey by the waist and spins him to face the bench. Mickey lets his body be pushed and pulled, grinning wildly as he climbs to kneel on the bench. 

_Lube. One finger. Neck kiss. Two fingers. Three fingers._

They’ve done this dance so many times before, yet Ian still feels that swoop of excitement deep within his gut as Mickey’s body starts to give in to him. He shoves back roughly onto Ian’s fingers with a needy whine that lets Ian know he’s ready. Ian pulls back his fingers and slicks up his cock, smirking at the way Mickey’s thighs shake in anticipation. He presses an open palm to the bottom of Mickey’s spine and Mickey obediently leans forward more, legs spreading to show his prepped hole. 

Ian licks his lips and runs a hand through his own sopping hair before he finally lines up and pushes inside the familiar grip of his husband’s body. It clings to Ian like it always has, accepting the intrusion like a puzzle piece slotting into place. 

“Mickey,” Ian gasps, the word barely audible above the heavy pattern of the water beating down the backs of his calves. 

“Fuck, yeah — just like that,” Mickey moans, even though he’s currently the only one moving, bouncing lightly on his knees as he works himself down and back up Ian’s long cock. 

Ian rubs his hands along Mickey’s back, taking a moment to study the soft skin mottled with scars. He knows them all, he’s even the cause of a few, but despite the pain that put them there Mickey’s body is still Ian’s favourite story. He digs his thumbs into Mickey’s hips, holding gently as Mickey continues to rock himself roughly onto Ian’s dick, one hand pressed to the top of the bench for leverage and the other against the glass door. 

“C’mere,” Ian murmurs, sliding his hands along Mickey’s sides and pulling him close until they’re back to chest. Mickey moans, instantly reaching a hand back over his shoulder to grasp at Ian’s hair. Mickey’s mouth falls open, eyes scrunched tight like the pleasure hurts as he tugs gently at Ian’s locks. Ian grazes his teeth along Mickey’s throat and presses a hand flat against his stomach, joined by Mickey’s own hand a moment later. Their fingers lace, scratching along the warm wet skin of Mickey’s abdomen. 

When Ian starts to thrust up to meet Mickey halfway, the shorter man starts losing control of his voice, calling wordlessly against the heavy patter of water. 

“Ian, fuck—s’good, so fuckin’ good,” Mickey slurs, gathering enough breath to force the words out as he grinds down onto Ian’s cock. Ian can feel Mickey’s thighs start to shake beneath the strain of holding his own weight against the slippery tile, so he grabs his husband by the hips and yanks him back onto his feet. 

“Hold on, Mick. M’gonna make you come,” Ian instructs, smiling as Mickey’s hands quickly scramble to the back of the bench. Ian wraps his wet fingers around Mickey’s hard, neglected cock, and uses the force of his thrusts to slide Mickey’s cock through his fist. 

“Yeah, yeah, — yeah,” Mickey babbles, head nodding like he’s agreeing with everything Ian’s body is doing to his. “Fuck, I’m close. I’m so close, don’t stop—fuck, Ian. Keep — I wanna, fuck I wanna feel you come.”

Ian grunts and fucks into Mickey, erratic but still getting that sweet precise angle that makes Mickey come apart. He comes with a cry and Ian milks it for all he can, jacking Mickey steadily until he’s shaking and cursing. 

“Fuck, I love you,” Ian moans and he swears he can hear Mickey’s smile as he starts to grind back on Ian’s cock again.

“—love you too. Fuck, c’mon, fill me— _fuuuck_.” Ian’s coming hard, already tipped over the edge by the ease of Mickey’s _love you too_. He’s never going to take those words for granted ever again. 

They’re grinning at each other when they move beneath the spray again, laughing breathlessly as Ian pumps a few handfuls of body wash from one of the complimentary bottles. He rubs the luxurious smelling liquid over his husband’s shoulders and chest, cackling with delight when it soaps up into honest-to-god suds. Mickey rolls his eyes but laughs too, pressing their chests together and kissing Ian through each happy laugh. 

————

They’re not out of the shower ten minutes when there’s a knock at the door followed by a cheery “Room service!”

Ian answers with a perplexed look and a towel clutched around his waist whilst Mickey sits up from where he’s lounging on the bed, light green towel draped loosely across his lap. 

“We didn’t order any room service,” Ian says as Frank rolls the service cart into the room. It’s covered with plates of meats, breads, cheeses and olives - a delectable selection of antipasti. 

“Well, you caught us on a quiet day and this food needs using and I also bet Stevie twenty bucks round one was in the shower, but Gerard says I’m supposed to tell you it’s to congratulate you on your big day and not to tell you about the bet.”

Ian laughs. He likes how out of place the older tattooed man looks in his ripped jeans pushing a sleek tea trolley, and he’d be lying like a motherfucker if he said he wasn’t attracted to the guy or that it wasn’t because the guy reminded him so much of Mickey. 

“Thank you,” Ian says warmly, not missing the way Mickey’s eyes flick over his face, brows raised. “Tell Stevie to pay up.”

 _“You better not be betting on the guests again!”_ Frank’s radio warns from his belt. Frank plucks it from its holster. 

“Of course not, babe. I’d never do such a thing. Also, on a totally unrelated note, pizza is on me tonight.” He winks at them both and with a little wave he exits the room, chattering away to the radio. 

When Ian turns from closing the door, he finds Mickey staring oddly at him. 

“What?”

“Just waiting for you to put your tongue back in your mouth,” Mickey replies nonchalantly. 

Ian rolls his eyes teasingly. “Why? You jealous?”

Mickey scoffs and folds his arms across his chest. “No. I mean, if you’re into that sort of thing.”

Ian grins and crawls up the crisp white bedding until he’s hovering over Mickey’s lap.

“What, you mean that short ass tattooed bad boy thing?” He asks, winding his arms around Mickey’s neck as Mickey unfolds his arms and holds onto Ian’s waist. 

“Fuck you, Gallavich.”

Ian kisses his forehead. “You hate topping, and I’m hungry.”

They drag the cart to the bed and pile the plates in front of them. They rarely eat food like this. Southside cuisine is more pizza rolls and pop tarts, and Mickey isn’t into that steamed veg and chicken shit Ian has when he’s on a health kick. He’s currently hoovering up bread and olives and meats, and Ian’s having a hard time containing his grin. He fucking _loves_ watching Mickey enjoy something for himself, whether it’s a good beer, a great orgasm or the first hot shower of the morning, watching Mickey be truly and unguardedly happy makes Ian want to protect his husband against everything that makes him feel anything but that. 

“God, this weird bacon is good,” Mickey moans and Ian smiles and kisses Mickey’s cheek before letting him eat the rest of his slice of prosciutto. 

When Ian gets back from the bathroom, Mickey’s lounging back on the bad, sans towel, flipping through the TV channels. His hair is slightly fluffy from drying in the natural warmth of the room, feathering lightly against his pink skin in a way that makes him look so young. He catches Ian staring and instead of teasing, he leans back and tucks an arm behind his head. 

“Alien versus Predator is on,” he says and Ian wanders naked back to the bed and tucks himself into Mickey’s side. He leans up to kiss his husband, running his fingers through Mickey’s feathery hair. 

They actually make it through an impressive amount of the movie before Mickey’s hands start to wander. 

“Thought you wanted to watch the movie,” Ian smirks as Mickey’s soft fingertips run slow circles around his navel. He combs his fingers through the wiry copper hair on Ian’s abdomen and Ian’s dick twitches in response. 

“I’ve seen it,” Mickey mumbles, turning the TV off before tossing the remote aside and then lifting Ian’s slowly hardening cock to his waiting, hungry mouth. 

“Mi- _ckey_ ,” Ian whines before all the air in his lungs evaporates right through his chest. Mickey takes him down more than halfway and just stays there, warm and wet as he stares up at Ian with a shit eating grin that Ian can see even with a mouthful of cock. 

Mickey hums in approval as Ian’s dick hardens, flattening his tongue against the underside so he can start making those little sucking sounds that Ian loves so much. 

“Fuck, you’re so fucking good at that,” Ian breathes as he runs his fingers through Mickey’s damp quiff. Mickey’s baby blues shine at the praise and Ian strokes a thumb along his eyebrow. “Kiss me.”

Mickey obliges instantly, letting Ian’s cock fall gracelessly from his mouth so he can drag himself into Ian’s lap. Ian pushes himself on to his elbows so he can meet Mickey halfway in a deep and dirty kiss. He can taste himself in Mickey’s mouth and it’s so much hotter than it has any right to be, and so he chases the flavour down with the tip of his tongue. 

“Fuck, I wanna ride you,” Mickey moans softly as he grinds his ass crack back against Ian’s erection. 

“Yeah?” Ian drops to his back and slides his hands along Mickey’s thighs. It’s something they don’t get to indulge in often, but Ian fucking loves it. He loves Mickey taking what he wants. 

Mickey licks his lips and nods before scrambling for the lube on the side table. He gets a good amount in his hand and reaches back to jack Ian slowly, teasing ever so slightly. 

“Don’t be such a fuckin’ tease, Gallavich,” Ian groans at his husband, and Mickey’s eyes instantly darken into something fierce and wanting. Ian loves the name even more now he sees the look on Mickey’s face. He loves having something that’s theirs, because this is just for them. No family drama or authority or fucked up outside influences. Just Ian and Mickey and this constant thrum of vibrating energy that surrounds them. That’s always surrounded them. 

Mickey doesn’t prep himself, just slicks Ian up some more and then lines him up before sinking slowly. Mickey’s still worked open somewhat from the shower, but that little extra bit of resisting pressure still makes Mickey hiss. 

“Fuuuck, yes,” he drawls as he bottoms out against Ian’s body, face relaxing into complete ecstasy. Ian loves how much Mickey loves to bottom, and fuck does he love being the only person to ever make Mickey lose it like that. 

Mickey rocks himself forward and then does a delicious roll with his hips that almost makes Ian whimper. Fuck, he’s got the hips of a dancer. He probably could have made a fuck ton more in boystown with those hips than Ian ever did - not that Ian would ever say that to him out loud. Instead he grabs onto Mickey’s waist and encourages more of those sinful waves from his husband’s body. Mickey’s hands find purchase on Ian’s shoulders to keep steady as he moves, rolling over and over and over again. 

“God, Mick—fuck, it’s like we were fucking made for this,” Ian moans as he quickly moves one hand to Mickey’s neck, cupping it gently and pulling their faces closer together. He holds Mickey’s gaze to show that he means it, to offer it as another piece of security for Mickey to hold onto. Because this is it, now. How it’s always supposed to have been. 

“Soft fucker,” Mickey whispers before kissing Ian with his real reply. 

It’s only when their muffled moans can’t be subdued any longer that they tear their mouths apart, gasping for breath. Mickey pushes himself back up so he can put more power in his rolls as he grinds himself down heavier on Ian’s cock. 

Ian grabs hard at Mickey’s hips and holds them slightly aloft, giving himself just enough room to be able to fuck up completely into Mickey’s waiting body. The force of the first thrust forces Mickey forward, hands gripping tightly at the top rung of the horizontal bars of the headboard. Ian digs his heels into the mattress and puts all his core strength into fucking Mickey, hard and precise like he knows Mickey loves it. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck—Ian!” Mickey pants, eyes closed and jaw slack like he can’t believe how fucking good this feels. 

Ian’s feeling it too, so much so that he finds himself careening toward orgasm a lot quicker than he’d hoped but, fuck — Mickey’s face is just too much to take. He doesn’t want it to end but he can’t stop chasing it, and soon he’s stuttering Mickey’s name and coming hard inside him. 

Mickey’s eyes are surprised but he doesn’t seem to mind, nodding licking his lips as Ian rides out the last few waves of orgasm. When Mickey goes for his cock, Ian slaps his hand away.

“The fuck?” Mickey snaps before Ian’s shoving their bodies forward, using his strength to move them both to the edge of the bed. He grabs onto Mickey’s ass hard and stands, lifting a flinching Mickey into the air. “What the fuck?” Mickey calls. “Watch your fuckin’ leg, man.”

Ian ignores him and takes the two strides to the desk with little discomfort, rolling the chair aside with his hip as he lowers Mickey onto the surface. Mickey laughs when Ian sets him down, which quickly turns into outright giggling as Ian sits down in the chair and rolls himself between Mickey’s legs. He adjusts the height on the chair and Mickey starts to roar with laughter, but the sound is quickly swallowed as he takes Mickey’s hard cock down whole. 

“Fu-uuu—“ Mickey chokes, knees bent over Ian’s shoulders as he falls back against the wall with a soft thud.

Ian hums and licks and sucks and spits until Mickey is shaking, and then he slides two fingers quickly into Mickey’s filled hole to toy with that bundle of nerves until Mickey can’t stand it. 

Mickey doesn’t just come, he fucking _explodes_ , heels digging into Ian’s spine as he comes hard down his throat. Ian would smirk if he could, but his mouth is busy sucking Mickey through his orgasm, fingers still pulsing lightly inside him. Mickey starts whining softly and Ian doesn’t know if it’s in protest or request, but he keeps moving anyway; and Mickey lets him for a moment or so before he kicks at Ian’s shoulder. 

“Get the fuck out of my hole,” Mickey groans with a smirk, one that Ian quickly wipes off his face by grabbing him by the thighs and hauling him on to Ian’s lap. Mickey cackles and goes willingly, arms wrapping around Ian’s neck as his feet find the floor again. He runs his fingers through Ian’s hair and cups his head, pinning Ian with an almost disbelieving gaze as their laughing slowly ceases. “Damn,” Mickey breathes. “You’re the best fuck I’ve ever had, Gallavich.” 

“Good job you put a ring on it then,” Ian replies smugly, and Mickey shakes his head but kisses Ian anyway before Ian rolls them over to the bed, Mickey laughing into his mouth before being hoisted back onto the mattress again. 

————

When Ian wakes, it’s to blinding light. He squints and holds his hand up to his eyes, shielding them from the bright beams of pink and orange that flood into the room through the weird windows. Now he knows why they call this the sunset room. 

After they’d fucked, cleaned up and eaten, Mickey had found the rest of the movie on a plus one channel and smiled sweetly in response to Ian’s chuckle. Ian hadn’t realised how tired he was until they’d clambered beneath the warm sheets and just held onto each other, and then Ian had been out like a light. 

Now he snuggles closer to his husband, draping his torso over Mickey’s chest and stomach and kissing along the soft stretched skin of his collar bone. Mickey hums and smiles and wraps his around Ian’s shoulders, letting himself be kissed awake. 

“Damn, that’s a bright fuckin’ sunset,” Mickey croaks as he squints into the light, eyes slowly opening to focus on Ian’s face. He smiles softly and reaches out to brush a few stray hairs from Ian’s face. “Wanna see if this place has roof access and go watch?”

Ian grins and rolls away from Mickey to drag their bag over from the floor. He starts pulling some clean clothes out, relieved he’d had the presence of mind to pack this bag a couple nights ago. When he pulls out the box of edible boxers, Mickey snorts and shakes his head. 

“Fuckin’ Carl.” But he quickly changes his tune when Ian fishes out a joint that’s sticking roach side up out of one of the corners. “Liking Carl a little more now.”

Ian throws a clean pair of (non edible) boxers at Mickey’s head. 

————

Ten minutes later, they’re staring down at the harbour from their bird’s eye view on the rooftop, watching the cold evening chill ripple the otherwise calm waters. Mickey zips up his coat and stuffs his hands into his pockets as he waits for Ian to light the joint. 

Ian takes the first hit and leans back to exhale it towards the stars, waiting until every wisp has been blown away before handing it to Mickey. Mickey takes one last look at the boats before stepping back and lowering himself gingerly onto the raised platform where the vents jut out. He hisses around the joint as he sits. 

“Cold?” Ian asks, holding a hand out for the smoke. 

“Yeah, plus some fucker spent all afternoon going at my hole,” he smirks as he hands it over and Ian grins. Mickey looks suddenly so much younger, smirking up at Ian like they’ve just finished fucking under the bleachers. It almost takes Ian’s breath away just how god damn beautiful he is. 

“Sounds like a keeper,” Ian says, taking a hit before sitting next to Mickey, pressing their thighs together. 

“Fucker,” Mickey mumbles. 

They smoke the joint in relative silence, and really it’s great to just sit and enjoy the quiet. They’ve had that so rarely in their relationship, surviving on little moments they fought to carve out for themselves. Now, with all this space, existing together just feels so right. 

Ian takes the last hit of the joint, flicks it away and exhales the smoke over his cold hands. 

“You really gonna kill your dad?” He finally asks, and Mickey goes still for just a moment. 

“I kind of have to,” Mickey replies softly. 

“Why?”

Mickey sighs and shakes his head. “Because we’ve fought too fucking hard for this to have that asshole take it away. Terry’s dumb but he’s fucking persistent, he won’t leave us alone.” 

“We could leave? Move someplace he’ll never find us?” Ian suggests, but even as he says it he doesn’t believe himself. Mickey just gives him a look, one that takes Ian right back to the border and Mickey’s desperate pleading face. 

“We can’t leave, Ian. Your family needs you, and I need you someplace safe with structure, where everyone is on your team.”

“Our team,” Ian quickly corrects. 

“Sappy fucker,” Mickey huffs but reaches for Ian’s hand anyway, lacing their fingers together. 

Ian strokes his thumb slowly over Mickey’s, staring down at their linked hands like he still sometimes can’t believe it’s real. 

“You wanna stay with my family?” 

“Well, yeah,” Mickey shrugs. “For now, at least. Liam’s ten, man. You really want him hitting puberty under Carl’s supervision?” Ian scoffs. “See. Debs has got enough on her plate with the kid, same as Lip and his dramatic ass baby mama.”

A warmth starts to spread across Ian’s chest that even the cold evening can’t dull.

“But what about us? Don’t you want our own place?”

“Yeah,” Mickey answers quickly, squeezing Ian’s hand ever so slightly. “Of course I do. But we’ve got the rest of our lives to drive each other crazy. Couple of years and they’ll all be doing their own thing.”

Ian swallows against the lump in his throat. Fuck, he really is a sappy fucker. Before Mickey can be anymore unreasonably selfless and understanding, Ian grabs him by the back of the neck and kisses him, pouring all the gratitude he can through his lips as he sighs against the slow methodical pattern of Mickey’s tongue. 

When the kiss breaks Ian keeps his hand where it is, locking Mickey’s face in front of his so that Mickey can feel every word. “I love you.”

Mickey cracks a secret smile. “Love you too, you sappy fuck.” 

“And that’s why I can’t let you kill Terry.”

Mickey sighs deeply and pulls away, leaning back against the vent to stare up at the stars. “I got no other choice,” he says, and Ian’s still thinking through the silence before Mickey adds, ever so quietly, “I can’t lose you again.” 

“You won’t,” Ian replies with resounding determination, taking Mickey’s hand again and clasping it tightly between both of his own. “Mick, this is it. You’re it for me, okay? And nothing anyone could do or say will ever change that.”

“I know, Ian,” Mickey urges. “I know that now, but if my dad gets his way we’re gonna be in matching Mr and Mr coffins unless I put him in the ground first. He’s a Milkovich, man. They don’t ever stop tryin’ .”

And fuck, does Ian know that for a fact. Mickey’s never given up on loving him, not once. He’s never felt so completely loved by anyone outside of his family and he wants to protect that - for both of them. 

“Well, Gallaghers tend to like plans that don’t involve us doing time for murder.”

Mickey tucks his lips into the corner of his mouth and hums. 

“Okay, so...what would Gallavichs do?”

End of Part I


	2. WWGD: What Would Gallavich Do?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Very well, Gallavich. Look, I’m here as a favour to you as well my own conscience, okay? You’ve always been a smart mouthed little delinquent, but you don’t deserve Terry fucking Milkovich as a father - and no kid, no matter what, deserves to be scared their pops is gonna put ‘em on a slab because of who they love.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all the awesome feedback I got on part one! I hope you enjoy the concluding part. Let me know what you think.
> 
> (p.s. I’m aware some people have negative feelings towards the term Gallavich, and I’m not ignorant to the fandom suffering/injustices. I get it, I do. But I still hope you can give this fic a chance)

**Three Weeks Later**

“Oh my god,” Ian moans, cotton soft pleasure surrounding his body. 

“Fuck, that’s good,” Mickey agrees, flat on his back with his eyes closed tight. 

“It really is,” Debbie adds. “I think my spine is in heaven.”

“I think this is where we go when we die,” Sandy whispers, taking in a deep, calming breath. “Fuck, should have gone to church more.”

The heaven in question is the new Casper mattress that’s now completely expanded to its full capacity. Mickey had pulled a face when the tall box had arrived twenty four hours earlier, almost chasing after the delivery guy to ask him where the fuck their expensive mattress was (paid for with gift cards and money from selling the wedding gifts they didn’t want) - because surely it couldn’t spring out of this small ass fucking box. 

Ian had grinned with childish delight as they pulled the mattress out together and watched it slowly start to rise. He’d told Mickey a good five times that the mattress would take 24 hours to set up, and still Mickey looked bemused and perplexed as Ian explained the process again. 

They’d spent the night sleeping on the top bunk, having dismantled and sold both Ian’s and Carl’s old beds (and with Carl now firmly situated in Lip’s old room) to make room for their first marital purchase together. Keeping the top bunk felt like a natural choice in case someone brought a stray home, a kid needed to crash or one of them was in the dog house. 

It had been fun, actually. Really fucking fun, and a welcomed reprieve from the post-honeymoon blues that hit hard as soon as they stepped back into the chaos of Southside. Between bailing Debbie out, taking care of the household minors, deciding what to do about Terry and getting back to work/parole life, the wedding high had truly crashed and burned. But when they’d clambered onto the bunk together with quiet, breathless giggles, the world instantly shrank back down to the two of them. 

They’d kissed, hurried and happy, and jerked each other off in their boxers breathing moans into each other’s mouths. It reminded Ian of their first few nights together in prison, with every touch both familiar and new. Mickey had slept completely wrapped around Ian’s body, hands tangled possessively in Ian’s tank top as if he were afraid he might disappear in the night, and when Ian had awoken he’d lay there in the stillness for as long as possible.

“This is disturbing,” Carl says from the doorway with a long suffering sigh. 

“Mommy!” Franny runs by Carl at full force and leaps on to the bed, landing across Debbie and Sandy with an _umpf_. The bed ripples slightly, but doesn’t make a sound. 

Mickey glances down at the kid and back to Ian with an impressed little smirk. “God, this is worth every fucking penny.”

Ian grins as Mickey studies his face with a soft confidence, smiling at Ian like it’s a secret. It makes him feel content and needy, he just wants to reach out and kiss his husband, hold his face and kiss him with the tenderness they’ve deserved from day one. 

Ian loves being back in this room, and though he had said he and Mickey would be okay in the small room, secretly he’s glad his siblings insisted the married couple get the big room. This room is where he lay as a teenager and fell in love with the dirty south side boy whose smile made him both weak and fearless. 

Without taking his eyes away from Mickey’s, Ian announces to the room, “I’m gonna climb on top of my husband now, so I suggest you all leave.” 

There’s a collective groan of disgust from everyone else in the room as they all heave themselves towards the door, but Ian pays them no mind, instead choosing to watch Mickey’s smile get closer. They meet just as the door clicks shut, and Ian keeps to his word and rolls himself on top of Mickey’s body, settling between his legs and melting into the soft heat of Mickey’s mouth. 

Privacy is a concept most in this house struggle to grasp, but since the wedding Ian’s siblings have been uncharacteristically understanding and accommodating when it comes to giving the newlyweds need their alone time. It’s been nice - unsettling, but nice. And having a bedroom to themselves with a working lock has been fucking amazing. 

Mickey’s knees come up around Ian’s hips, denim clad thighs locking Ian in place as the gentle kiss remains slow and calm. There’s no real intent to it, they’re just kissing because they can, because it feels so goddamn good. Because these days, Mickey fucking loves kissing. Ian’s elbows frame Mickey’s head against the bare mattress, and when the kiss ends with a sweet and sticky sound Ian stares down at his husband’s face with softness until Mickey snorts and rolls his eyes playfully. 

“Fuckin’ pussy,” he mumbles teasingly, and Ian grins fully intent on drawing Mickey back into another kiss before the sound of feet pounding up the kitchen stairs stops him. 

“Yo! There’s a cop here, says he wants to talk to you guys,” Carl calls through the door, even adding a little knock at the end. 

Mickey tenses beneath Ian, legs twitching like they’re itching to bolt for the window. Instincts are a hard thing to kick. 

“What cop?” Ian yells and Carl huffs.

“I dunno, but he said he’s off the clock. You dealin’ again, Mickey?”

Mickey barks, “Ey, how about we not have this fucking conversation loudly through the door with a god damn cop in the house!”

Carl’s complaining reply is distant, and he’s already gone by the time they scramble from the bed and head to the kitchen. 

It’s Officer Sanchez.

He’s standing by the back door in an awkward silence as the rest of the household eye him curiously from the other side of the kitchen counter. 

“Fellas,” he nods as they appear on the stairs. “How was the honeymoon?”

“Fine, thanks.” Ian starts, looking cautiously between the Officer and his family. “Is, uh, is this about Terry? Did you find him?”

Terry’s been MIA around Southside since the drive by, probably laying low with his Nazi thugs in some whorehouse or crack den until the heat on him cools. 

At the mention of Terry’s name, the rest of the house spills closer across the kitchen, all incessantly rambling demanding to know where Terry is and if he’s rotting in a cell yet. 

“Can’t you just fucking beat him to death and get away with it?”

“He better not show up here unless he wants to feel the full force of Corporal Carl!”

“Can I get a bulletproof vest? Brothers always get shot first.”

“Alright! That’s enough!” Mickey calls, thumping down the last few stairs into the swarm of noise as it quickly dissipates. “Everyone who isn’t married to a dude needs to fuck off right now!”

Ian’s heart and cock stir simultaneously, like every time Mickey mixes commanding Southside thug with something softer. Fuck, it’s always been the thing that makes Ian feel the most feral around Mickey, ever since the fucking tyre iron. 

The room clears as the bodies skulk off upstairs or into the living room and Office Sanchez watches them all leave with quiet amusement. 

“We hadn’t heard a peep about him until last night,” he finally says once it’s just the three of them. “Our informant from the Southside Tigers said Terry’s been creepin’ around the firearms dealers on the lookout for something with long range.”

Ian gets a chill and he glances at Mickey to find his husband’s face frustratingly unreadable. His blue eyes narrow a little and Ian can see the cogs turning behind them. They’ve still yet to settle on a plan that isn’t _“Just let me fucking strangle him with my bare hands until his eyes explode”_ , and Ian knows they’re running out of time. 

“And you have _no_ idea where he is?” Ian asks, though he shouldn’t sound surprised. Terry Milkovich is a cockroach of a human being. 

Officer Sanchez folds his large arms across his chest, looking genuinely apologetic. “Look, Terry is a priority, don’t get me wrong. He’s just not our highest priority, and the department has limited-”

“Yeah, yeah,” Mickey interrupts with an impatient eye roll and hand wave. “Under funded, not enough donuts, blah blah blah. Thanks for your help - gonna shoot him in the face, though.”

Ian glares at Mickey as Officer Sanchez groans, “I didn’t hear that, Milkovich.” 

“It’s Gallavich,” Mickey snaps quickly, and the Officer pauses for a moment before nodding. 

Fuck, Ian loves that name. Loves how it rolls out of Mickey’s mouth with determination and pride. 

“Very well, Gallavich. Look, I’m here as a favour to you as well my own conscience, okay? You’ve always been a smart mouthed little delinquent, but you don’t deserve Terry fucking Milkovich as a father - and no kid, no matter what, deserves to be scared their pops is gonna put ‘em on a slab because of who they love.”

“I’m not scared,” Mickey grumbles defensively. It’s a lie. Both Ian and Officer Sanchez know it’s a lie. Of course Mickey is afraid, because now he’s got something more valuable than anything else. 

Ian sighs and rubs a hand over his face. “What can we do?”

“You got one of two choices, I guess. You either run and risk him taking it out on people here, not to mention getting in shit for violating parole, or get some leverage on him and tell him to back the fuck off.”

“Leverage?” Ian repeats slowly and Officer Sanchez nods before turning to Mickey. 

“You know your old man. What’s the _most_ important thing to him?”

“Anthrax. I should send him some,” Mickey deadpans, leaving a weathered looking Officer Sanchez shaking his head and muttering something to himself. 

Ian doesn’t hear what he says, he’s too busy hatching a plan. 

——

“So, can you do it?” Ian asks Lip that evening, bouncing his sleepy nephew on his knee. 

Lip scratches at the label of his soda bottle before taking a sip. “I mean, yeah, it’s simple enough…”

“But?” Mickey prods from the other side of the dining table. Ian knows he’s looking for anything to pick apart any plan that doesn’t end with Terry’s insides on the outside. 

Lip grimaces. “Shit, I can’t believe I’m gonna say this but - _Ugh_. If you want it to be effective you’re gonna need to have some visuals.”

“What?” Ian frowns. “Uhm, you mean like-”

“A sex tape!” Sandy supplies helpfully. Mickey’s eyes only flicker slightly as the rest of his in-laws grin. 

“I’m not putting a sex tape on the fucking internet, Jesus!” Ian complains, tempted to cup his hands over his oblivious nephew’s ears. 

“It won’t actually be on the internet, genius. You make a fucking proto page. He won’t know the difference. I’m telling you, if you really want to get your point across you’re gonna have to show him everything.”

“Lip’s right,” Debbie chimes in. “The threat’s not enough. He’s gotta see it.”

“He’s seen it,” Mickey answers calmly, face still as stone, making Ian’s stomach clench terribly as he flips back to that day - one of the worst days of their lives. 

Lip softens visibly. Hell, he even looks a little compassionate as he gives Mickey a once over. “Yeah, but this time you’re in control. This time you’re gonna stand there like that means nothing.”

Ian squirms just a little. “And if we did...have a, uhm-”

“Sex tape,” Sandy adds helpfully, winking and tilting her bottleneck at Ian who smiles back sarcastically. 

“Doesn’t need to be the full thing,” Lip shrugs. “A photo or two, couple seconds of footage that can be looped. Just enough to make it believable.”

“And you can do that?” Ian asks, glancing at Mickey for some kind of confidence. 

“Yeah, I’ve got some favours to pull. I can get the skeleton of the page but I don’t know how much you want me looking at you or your husband’s junk.”

Sandy’s hand shoots up. “Ow, me! I can do it! I don’t care about seeing dude junk, plus I’ve completed like a thousand computer courses for a good early release application.”

Ian cocks an eyebrow. “Do you have any qualifications that weren’t earned through the criminal rehabilitation system?” 

Sandy grins and flicks her tongue between two fingers, making Ian scoff and Debbie laugh. 

Lip rubs his hands together and takes Freddy in his arms, cradling him against his chest as the baby coos and settles. “So, we all know what we’re doing then. Ian can sort the domain, Sandy and I will get the page done and Mickey...you can sort the rest, with your contacts?”

Mickey nods shortly and Sandy raises her beer in celebration. 

“Find me a dick pic with _passion_ , boys!”

—

They have porn of themselves. Of course they have fucking porn of themselves. Ian’s been sending Mickey dick pics for _years_ and then shortly after Mickey came out, they finally ventured into short clips of mostly blow jobs.

Back when the mania used to run his libido, Ian had a real strong voyeurism kink. Maybe it was due to the relief of Mickey being out, but the idea of Mickey with videos of them fucking and finally allowing himself to unashamedly _enjoy_ gay porn got Ian all kinds of hot. 

After Ian put himself in a shady porno, they didn’t record anything for a long time. Not until Mexico. They’d laid beneath the full moon for hours, talking and smoking and shoving at each other playfully until they ended up just out right wrestling. Ian had flipped his phone camera to check if he had any scratches on his face, and when the camera view flipped back round to Mickey, Mickey seemed to notice Ian watching him through the screen. He had slunk towards Ian coyly, crawling up his legs with a smirk as he reached for Ian’s belt. Ian hit record and Mickey blew him until the moon disappeared. 

Obviously they have recent pictures and a couple videos. It’s not like they make a regular habit out of it anymore, but fuck, do they enjoy it when they do. 

The last photo had been the morning of the wedding, Ian leaning back against the sink as Mickey swallowed down his cock, enthusiastically enjoying their last out of wedlock blow job. 

The last video had been at the hotel, the second one, in the morning, just before they had left. Mickey propped the phone on the bedside table with the front camera on so they could both watch as Ian pounded him from behind. It had been hot as fuck, and Ian came purely due to the fact he could see Mickey’s unguarded, blissed out face in clear, beautiful detail. 

“Hey, you hiding up here?” Ian asks as he pokes his head around the bedroom door. He finds his husband sitting cross legged on their new bed, baggy jeans and bare feet atop the burgundy fitted sheets. He looks so clean and fragile, and Ian wants to wrap him in bubble wrap like fine bone china. 

Mickey glances up from his phone but doesn’t answer, so Ian closes the door and drops onto the bed, giggling at the soft sway of the mattress moulding itself around him. 

“God, I can’t wait to fuck you on this,” Ian grins and Mickey gives him a small but genuine smile in return. He lays his head on Mickey’s thigh and reaches up to rub a thumb over his bottom lip. “What’re you looking at?”

Mickey flips the phone so Ian can see. On the screen is a photo of the two of them in the bathroom mirror of the hotel. The mirror is steamed from the shower and there’s a handprint swiped through the condensation revealing Mickey with Ian standing close behind. They’re naked and smiling and Ian’s got his arm around Mickey’s waist and his lips on Mickey’s neck. 

Ian smiles warmly. 

“That’s a great picture.”

Mickey nods silently, pressing his lips together as he turns the phone back around. 

“So, you think we should use it for the thing?” He says softly. He sounds so unsure and a little sad. Ian takes his hand and kisses the C and U. 

“You ok there, tiger?”

Mickey hums and rubs his fingers against Ian’s forehead, massaging along his hairline like he used to do in prison whenever Ian was struggling with his meds. It’s centreing and Ian loves how ready Mickey is to touch him so gently. 

“Yeah. No, yeah. I’m good.”

“Mickey...” Ian says with a little more point, lacing his fingers through Mickey’s and squeezing. 

“I want that bastard to see me happy,” Mickey says sharply. 

“Okay.”

“But I don’t want that bastard to see me happy,” he adds. 

Ian frowns. “Okay…”

“Fuck,” Mickey groans, head thunking back against the wall. “I want to rub Terry’s fucking face in how fucking happy I am with you. But I don’t.” He pauses to squeeze the bridge of his nose and groan. “I just, fuck. I don’t know how to explain-” 

“Hey, hey,” Ian interrupts, pushing himself up and scrambling quickly into Mickey’s lap. He pulls Mickey’s hand away from his face. Mickey’s brow is furrowed in frustration and he keeps his eyes closed but straightens his legs to accommodate Ian’s body. “I know what you’re trying to say.”

Mickey chuckles. “At least one of us does.” 

Ian takes Mickey’s phone and taps on the picture, zooming in on their smiling faces. 

“This is _our_ happy, and it’s for you and me and no fucker else, okay?” Mickey nods slowly, he still looks a little lost but his hands rest firmly on Ian’s thighs. 

“Yeah,” he breathes, and Ian leans in to rest his forehead against Mickey’s. 

“Nothing is ever gonna change that, Mick. I promise.”

Ian sees the angst slip slowly from Mickey’s face and he pulls back to watch the smile that replaces it. 

“Fuck, I love you,” Mickey says. 

“Pussy,” Ian smirks, and his husband’s replying laugh is lost in their kiss. 

——

When they fuck face to face, Ian loves getting lost in how Mickey breathes. His breaths are shallow pants when Ian first pushes in, eyes closed softly as he waits for his body to adjust. Ian always knows when Mickey’s ready for more when the panting slows and the tension in his thighs melts. 

“ _Fuuuck_ ,” Mickey breathes when Ian rolls his hips in that first delicious pull/push, eyes opening so he can smile loosely up at Ian. 

As Ian fucks him, Mickey’s knees pull higher around Ian’s waist, opening himself in a way that makes his breath come out in fast puffs of air, all exhales. 

The new mattress is performing beautifully. There’s no squeaks, no thumps, no rustling - just the gorgeous sounds of skin and breath. 

“Best - bed - ever,” Ian pants with each firm thrust forward. 

Mickey chuckles and hooks his fingers around the back of Ian’s neck, pulling their mouths together. They kiss in broken bits, around smiles and moans as Mickey’s fingers slide into and tighten in Ian’s hair. They tighten further the closer he gets to orgasm, and sometimes the sting teeters on the edge of too much, but Ian’s always too preoccupied with the little _huh huh huh_ noises Mickey makes. 

“C’mon, baby,” Mickey breathes and Ian knows that even under torture Mickey would never admit to the pet name, but it makes Ian groan and shift on his knees so he can shove his hips against Mickey’s quicker, fuck him deeper. 

When Mickey comes it’s not with a yell or a curse. Surprisingly, Ian’s the noisy comer, and after feeling Mickey come between them, untouched except for the friction of skin on skin and with his mouth hung open silently, Ian comes undone with a loud whine of Mickey’s name.

Still within the afterglow, Ian kisses his husband sweetly, slow and sticky like dripping honey, until the urge for nicotine overtakes the bliss. 

——

They choose the photos and video together the next morning. Ian’s on the afternoon shift and Mickey has the day off, so they make the most of their rare quiet morning together in an empty house by having a bag of M&Ms for breakfast and not leaving the bed unless absolutely necessary.

The photos are from a couple months ago when Mickey got out of prison. In typical Ian and Mickey fashion they’d been being shits with each other, teasing and boasting of dick sizes and blow job abilities. 

There’s a picture of Mickey with his mouth wrapped around Ian’s cock, looking as mischievous as when he used to steal shit from the Kash and Grab just to get Ian’s attention. In the next photo Ian’s rubbing the slit of Mickey’s dick against his tongue and smirking, because it’s the fastest way to get Mickey to come before he wants to. 

The photos are more playful than anything, and they both know that Mickey showing off his dick sucking skill is really going to piss Terry off. 

“Y’sure about the video?” Ian asks as he rests his head on Mickey’s chest. He trails his fingertips absentmindedly across Mickey’s pecs, listening for any change in his steady breathing. 

It’s the video from their honeymoon, that’s what Mickey has chosen. Just a five second clip of Ian pounding into Mickey from behind. Ian’s got his head thrown back and Mickey’s watching him in the camera, biting his lip before going completely slack jawed. 

“Mmhm,” Mickey responds, one arm wrapped around Ian’s shoulders as the other holds his phone. He selects the images and the short clip, gives one last glance to Ian and then sends them to Sandy. 

They both exhale slow, staring at the loading files as they send. _Woosh_. They send. 

A moment later, Mickey’s phone dings with Sandy’s reply. 

_Yes, cuz! Takin it like a Milkovich!_

Ian laughs harder than he has since the wedding, rolling onto his back and howling until Mickey attacks him, jamming his fingers into the soft flesh beneath Ian’s ribs. Mickey ends up laughing too, joyful and breathless as they wrestle. 

Fuck. Ian really hopes this fucking works. 

——

Three days later

Ian takes over setting up the mini projector after the fifth time Mickey threatens to strip it for parts. It’s not overly complex, it’s just being a fenicaty little fucker and his husband isn’t known for having patience. That, and he’s also nervous. Ian knows he’s nervous, he can feel Mickey getting jacked up on adrenaline as he paces around the garbage can fire, the only thing spewing orange light over the crumbling building. 

This place doesn’t hold the best memories for either of them and Ian can’t help but be reminded of the time Mickey beat the shit out of him. He can almost hear the bottles smash, the sounds of their feet in the gravel, the thud as his body hit the ground. 

“Stop it,” Mickey mumbles from by the fire, and when Ian glances over he can see Mickey staring hard at the flames. 

“Huh?”

Mickey sighs and fixes his hair nervously before finally looking Ian in the eye. “Stop thinking about it,” he probably means it as a demand but the pleading look in Mickey’s eyes makes it a desperate request. 

“Mick,” Ian starts softly, but is quickly interrupted by the growing sound of squealing tires and a rumbling engine. 

They jump into action, Mickey dragging the duffel bag away from the fire as Ian quickly flips the projector on, casting a bright white screen over one of the decrepit walls. 

The van pulls up and the door swings back with a powerful bang. The men inside bicker at each other in Spanish before they kick the hooded figure and the chair he’s tied to on to the ground. The body twitches like he’s being electrocuted, and the gang bangers flip Mickey off (who grins and returns the gesture) before clambering back into the van and speeding away. 

Ian and Mickey grab the back of the chair and the thick ropes that loop around the body, hauling it upright. Mickey rips the hood from their hostage’s head, and a snarling, half conscious Terry Milkovich is revealed, blood smeared over his nose and the start of a deep bruise blooming over his eye. 

“What the fuck, Mickey?” Terry snaps, eyes darting around as he angrily surveys his surroundings. His eyes glower as he clocks Ian standing there too. 

“Hey, pops. How you been?” Mickey grins sarcastically, bending down to retrieve a shotgun from the duffel bag. 

“What the fuck are you doing, you fucking faggot! Didn’t you and your faggy ginger bitch wife get the message?”

Mickey laughs and shakes his head, strolling casually up to his father with the shotgun hanging low. Ian tenses for a moment as he gets close, eyes flicking over the knots in the ropes. Mickey punches Terry in the face, sending his head snapping back with an eerie crack. 

“You need to be-” _punch_ “more fucking respectful-” _punch_ “to my fucking husband-” _punch_ “You fucking piece of shit!” _punch_. 

“Mick!” Ian quickly scolds. “We need him conscious,” he reminds his husband, and Mickey finally pulls back.

Terry sneers and spits away some of the blood in his mouth. His eyes are unfocused and Ian thinks he’s about to pass out, but Terry hangs his head for a moment and then glares back at them like it’s nothing.

Fucking Milkovich’s.

“Was that all?” Terry chuckles and Mickey lunges forward. 

“Fuck you, Terry!” He yells but doesn’t strike again, seemingly satisfied by Terry’s flinch. 

Terry spits again. “The fuck you faggots want?”

“Oh, y'know. Just to catch up,” Mickey says calmly, raising the barrel of the shotgun slowly until it’s aiming at his father’s face. “Get some quality face time with the old man.”

Terry’s nose scrunches in disgust. “You must be drunk on dick if you think I’m gonna let a Milkovich prance around like it’s fucking fairy faggot pride day.”

Ian chews hard on the corner of his lip to control his smirk, because he knows exactly what Mickey gets like when he actually is drunk on dick; it’s more clingy than homicidal. 

“See, that’s exactly what I wanted to talk to you about…” Mickey looks over at Ian for the first time since his dad got there. He looks determined. “Sweetie,” he says in a sickly cute tone that Ian has definitely never been addressed with before. Terry retches. “Will you start the show for your father in-law?”

Ian grins. “Sure, anything for my hubs and his old man.”

Terry curses and struggles against his restraints as Ian loads the fake website page on his phone and sets it back in the small projector, displaying Lip and Sandy’s hard work large and proud on the wall in front of them. 

“You sick perverted faggy fucks!” Terry growls as he flinches away like the image burns his eyes. _Good_. Ian hopes the fucker goes blind.

The webpage looks totally legit and in all honesty, Ian is more than impressed. **TAKE IT LIKE A MILKOVICH!** flashes at the top of the page ( _fucking Sandy_ ) in a bold yellow font against the black background. The page is lined with crime scene tape that reads _MILKOVICH_ over and over instead of ‘Police’, framing the video clip and images they chose together just days before. 

The address bar very clearly reads: www.milkovich.com

Mickey looks positively giddy with his father’s reaction, and he takes a few moments to soak it in as Terry thrashes uselessly in the chair, yelling various faggot related insults at them both. 

“I know, dad, you don’t have to say it - you’re proud of your boy,” Micky gleams, gesturing to the projection just to lead his father’s eyes there again; to the images of his son getting pounded and sucking dick. Weirdly, Ian’s actually kinda proud. 

“You pillow bitin’ fuckin’ queer!” Terry snaps. Ian wants to punch him too, wants to rip the fucker’s head off for everything, but mainly for Mickey. 

Ian casually leaves the projector to join his husband at his side, crossing his arms and looking as menacing as he can. It’s not exactly difficult to radiate hatred when standing in front of Terry Milkovich. 

“So, here’s the deal, you homophobic prick,” Mickey starts, raising the gun again. “You don’t want a fag for a son? Good. I don’t want a wailing little bitch as a dad. So why don’t we do each other a favour and forget we exist?”

Terry looks pissed and confused. “How we meant to do that, you fucking shirt lifter?”

Ian rolls his eyes. _Technically_ it’s _Mickey_ who has his shirt lifted but, whatever. 

“Just fucking erase me, okay?” Mickey bites, and though they both know being together means exactly this for the Milkovich’s, it still hurts Ian that Mickey has to say it. “You can’t have a Milkovich being a fag, well, guess what? I’m changing my name. I’m not gonna be a Milkovich and you can just fucking delete me from the family history, or whatever. Leave us alone and you don’t have to worry about your precious fucking name being associated with such a cock sucker.”

Terry looks like he’s actually thinking it over, even through the permanent scowl that’s dug into his features like a deep scar. “And if I don’t?”

Mickey grins. “If you don’t?” He repeats, voice calm and dangerous. It makes Ian shiver. “If you don’t, or if anything ever happens to me or my husband or someone we love, the address to Milkovich dot com will be spray painted over every fucking drug den, whore house and gang pad in the fucking city.” 

“You fucking wouldn’t dare,” Terry snarls through spit and blood. It’s the first time he hasn’t finished a sentence with an insult. 

Mickey laughs shortly. “You really wanna try me, old man?” He readjusts his grip on the shotgun and puts Terry’s face in his sights again. “Prison is more progressive these days, pops. I got a lot of friends on the inside, just like you taught me. Hell, how do you think you ended up here huh?”

“You cock sucking pussy,” Terry growls. “I’d crush your fairy skull in a fight.” 

Mickey chews on his lip for a moment and then lowers the gun. “Yeah, maybe. But I don’t need to do shit when I’ve got a military trained husband who can send high powered ammunition through your thick skull from long range, ain’t that right, sweetie pie?” Mickey says, handing the gun over to Ian who, without missing a beat, pulls the shotgun back and aims it at Terry’s head. 

“You got that damn right, honey bear,” he growls. 

The moments of tension filled silence drag on as Terry flits his glaring gaze back and forth between them. Ian doesn’t move a muscle. 

Finally, he sniffs and looks away. “Fine.”

“What was that, mumbles?” Mickey prods.

“I said fine!” Terry barks. He glances at the projected website again and quickly turns back in disgust. “You’re dead to me, homo, and to every other Milkovich.”

Slowly, Ian lowers the shotgun and passes it back to Mickey. 

“Best wedding gift ever,” Mickey shrugs. 

Terry huffs. “Fuck you, you fucking faggy-”

“Alright, that’s enough from you, thank you,” Mickey says as he steps calmly forward and crashes the but of the shotgun into the side of Terry’s face. 

He’s unconscious before he hits the ground, chair rocking back on two legs before toppling over and crashing into the dirt. 

“Christ, Mick,” Ian breathes as he steps forward to give Terry a once over. Unfortunately, he’s still alive. 

Mickey shrugs one shoulder. “I didn’t wanna listen to his fucking yammering anymore.”

——

When Iggy arrives in his pickup truck, Mickey looks tense for a second as his brother jumps down from behind the wheel. 

“He still out?” He asks Mickey, wiping at his mouth. 

“You think it’d be this quiet if he wasn’t?” Mickey shoots and Iggy pauses for a beat before smirking. Mickey visibly relaxes. 

“Yeah, that’s true,” he drawls, glancing over Terry’s bloodied slumped body. “How’d it go?”

Mickey nods. “Fine. The dumb fuck isn’t as dumb as he looks.” 

They help Iggy load Terry into the back of the truck, still tied to the damn chair. They slam the swing door of the trunk closed and throw a tarp over the unconscious body. 

“When do y’think he’ll come to?” Iggy asks as the three of them stand peering at the truck. 

Mickey sucks his lips into his mouth and shrugs. “Soon. Just kick him out in front of the house and don’t be around when he does.”

It’s Mickey’s way of telling his brother to be careful, to look after himself and stay safe. Probably the closest to _I love you_ two Milkovich’s could ever get. 

“Sure thing, bro.”

Mikey smiles weakly. “Not anymore.”

Iggy purses his lips in thought before punching Mickey in the shoulder. “Fuck off, dick breath. You’re still my brother.”

“Oh yeah?” Mickey smirks. “Where’s my fucking wedding present then?”

Iggy laughs and flips him off before climbing back into the truck. “Later, douchebags.” When he’s in the driver’s seat, he rolls down the window and nods at Ian. “Keep him alive, if you can.”

Ian nods back. “I’ll do my best.”

As Iggy drives away Ian gives a wave and Mickey flips the bird until the truck is almost completely out of sight. 

Ian lets out a long, slow breath and steps behind Mickey to wrap his arms firmly around his husband’s waist. Mickey leans back into the embrace, placing his hands on top of Ian’s and letting him hold them steady as they gaze at the city. 

Fuck.

They did it.

Now what? 

Ian brushes his lips against Mickey’s ear and whispers, “Can I take you home Mr. Gallavich?”

Mickey smiles and twists his head so that Ian’s lips catch his cheek. He hums, pleased. “Hell yeah Mr. Gallavich.”

The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hit me up on tumblr: wildxwired

**Author's Note:**

> Please let me know what you think. Kudos and comments are my JD and orange juice.
> 
> Hit me up on tumblr: wildxwired


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